


1nterl0ck

by Anonymous



Series: (1)nterl(0)ck(ed) [1]
Category: Cyberpunk Red, Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Amnesia / Memory Loss, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Gen, Non-Consensual Drug Use, first meeting headcanon, hard drugs, one brief mention of dubcon/transactional sex that goes nowhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-10-24 23:42:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20714504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: interlocknoun/ˈin(t)ərˌläk/An engineering feature that makes the state of two mechanisms or functions mutually dependent. In most applications, an interlock is an idiot-proof strategy used to prevent a machine from harming its operator or damaging itself.





	1. 1nterl0ck

When Burger breaks down a warehouse door, it’s not unusual for tweakers to run skittering like cockroaches. He usually lets them go.

This time, though, he might need a hand. He’s got a coupla blanks to fill out on the spec sheet for this job— mostly the _who_ and the _why_ bits. Burger’s not much for recon, ‘specially shaking down dry-mouthed addicts, but the pay was good and it’d be nice for Lovelace to owe him a favor. And at least the _what_ of the job, being head-cracking, is comfortably in his wheelhouse.

So he smashes off the fancy technolock with a satisfying shower of sparks and opens the door with a flat-footed steel-toed kick and when someone yelps and darts, Burger dives on instinct and gets his hand around a bony ankle.

“Oh no you don’t,” he grunts in satisfaction as the bare foot tries to slip him, kicks and writhes— it’s no good, though, he’s got a grip enough to yank— and a little screechy body drags out, scrabbling at the pile of boxes it was trying to climb.

Perfect. He’s tiny, slim and filthy and sun-dazzled, and though he’s a bit shrill he doesn’t seem like he’s callin’ for backup. A once-over suggests there’s no weapon on him, either— he’s half-naked, honestly, in a leotard that sparkles even under all the grime— and though he keeps screeching and grabbing and flailing he’s not got a lotta muscle so it’s not particularly bothersome.

Burger hoists the leg up, hooks the knee over his shoulder unceremoniously, turns and walks out. His cargo beats his hands, kicks his feet, ineffective, disoriented— but hard enough to express his displeasure. Burger lets him get it out of his system.

It’s only a short walk to the van. And it’s easy to lay the kid out, flat on his back, a hand around his throat and a knee in his stomach, all set to have a nice chat. Whenever he’s ready.

“What’s your name?” Burger starts, politely, when the kid stops struggling and therefore stops being choked.

“What’s it— to you—?”

His voice is a little brash for how much it scratches through his slim throat. He’s got long, matted platinum-blonde hair, and his eyes are darting wild, and he _really_ needs to learn how to read a room.

“I’d like ta know, that’s all. What’s your name?”

“Vang0 Bang0,” the kid twitches his hands at Burger’s wrist, uselessly. His fingernails are painted sky blue; not long enough to do any damage. “I’m no one. And I can’t help you.”

“Well, let’s see about that.” It’s not that it’s gonna be fun to— okay it might be a _little_ fun. This Vang0 fella’s got big goofy eyes and a sort of holier-than-thou expression and seems smart enough to know that Burger could just turn him upside down and shake out of him anything he’s got. So he’ll probably do most of the intimidation work all by himself. “Why dontcha start by tellin’ me you’re a nice kid, Vang0, and you’ll help me as much as you can.”

“Oooookay big guy,” he rolls his eyes. They stutter, jerk, in the exaggerated movement. “I’ll help as much as I can. Which is exactly _none_.”

Chainz raises an eyebrow and says nothing. Ballsy, kid.

“Look, guy. You’re looking for information, right?” Vang0 pauses, but not long enough for confirmation. “If you had someone to talk to there’s no reason to grab a rando and start asking questions. _Who’s in charge around here_ or _You seen a guy around that looks like this_ or _Who owns this place_ or _How often do people come in here_ or whatever. Something like that?”

“Something like that,” Burger agrees, amiably.

“And when I say I don’t know you’re gonna choke me ‘til I beg. And when I still say I don’t know you’re gonna do something...something worse than that.”

The kid pauses, flicks his eyes away. He’s squirming a little, still, but not really fighting, just wriggling as if he doesn’t really know how to stop, like he’s wrung out from drugs. Feeling the brain zaps. But he barrels on.

“And when I say I’ve never seen anyone go in or out, and I wouldn’t remember if I had, you’re gonna get frustrated,” he snaps. “And you’ll beat the shit out of me, until eventually you believe me when I say I’m useless, and then you’ll probably bash my head in and do your own investigating. And you’re gonna _suck_ at it because I bet you couldn’t investigate your way out of a paper bag.”

Burger can’t help it, he barks out a laugh at this ridiculous diatribe, because it’s just so _brassy_ a thing delivered in such a desperate little squeak.

The tweaker looks proud of himself and surprisingly bright-eyed for how high he must be, and he also looks the appropriate amount of terrified for someone whom Burger has no particular reason to be nice to.

He’s wild, this one. And smart. And he seems to like talking, so that’s useful at least.

“Well then.” Chainz says. Just that. The kid shivers.

“Please, I—” He shifts, his tone goes plaintive, ragged for a second, before it tightens up again. “_Shit_. I’m gonna say I don’t know anything, and you’re gonna say _a likely story_ or something dumb like that, and then you’re probably gonna start breaking fingers until I come up with a better explanation than _I woke up in this warehouse yesterday and I don’t know where the fuck I am or who I am or why I’m here_ and honestly? I don’t have enough material to give you a lie that you’ll swallow— so can you just—” He sucks in a gulp of air, and lets it out through his nose. “Can you just tell me how many fingers it’s gonna take, before you believe me? And also would you consider starting with toes? Unless that doesn’t decrease the number of fingers, in which case please don’t.”

“I don’t usually set a number beforehand,” Burger says, tone still light, because the motormouth nerves are honestly amusing. “I just tend ta go with the flow.”

The kid— Vang0— closes his eyes. “I don’t remember if I’ve ever broken a bone before,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Maybe it doesn’t hurt that bad.”

“One way ta find out,” Chainz can’t help but smile. This little guy’s _fun_. He drags a hand down Vang0’s bare arm— this one spends a lot of time indoors, his skin’s as white as copy-paper— runs his rough fingers all the way along the underside, feels the smooth skin interrupted by intermittent track marks. The wrist twitches but doesn’t really try to jerk away, just lets him manipulate it, press the palm down and get his thick fingers around the pinkie. Kid’s fingertips are slim and cold and eerily smooth.

“_Please_,” Vang0 repeats, but it’s a little distant. Like he knows it’s not gonna cut it. “I’ll tell you everything I’ve seen since 3am, which is two rats and a stock robot. Or I’ll help you try and turn the place over, find some clues. Or I’ll suck your dick and make it _good_, but please— please don’t— I— I can’t…”

“You’re tellin’ the truth, arentcha,” Burger breaks in. Because there’s no sense torturing him into a panic attack. “You got nothing for me. Don’t know who runs this place.”

“Nope…?” Vang0 breathes out, not really a question, just a soft kinda disbelieving-hopeful sound.

Yeah, that seems about right. No reason this scrawny little hophead should know anything. Chainz releases the neck and the hand and steps back, hops out of the van, gives some space. The strange little creature he’s caught sits up right quick, folds himself cross-legged, brushes back his hair, but makes no move to scarper out the back. Huh.

“Well?” Burger prompts.

Vang0 Bang0 stares at him, keenly, far too keenly for how filthy and strung-out he is.

“Are you letting me go?”

“Yup,” Burger gestures. “Off you trot. ‘fyou don’t know who’s the boss around here, you’re no use to me.”

Those wide eyes stare at him. Oddly _appraising_. He’s got some kind of aug in there, pale chromatic blue irises, definitely something illegal that’ll fuck with recog software. His expression’s as near-naked as his body, guileless, telegraphing his jitters and his thoughts and all of it. It's clear he's running on adrenaline and desperation, and he’s weighing some decision. He licks his tongue over his lips. He’s got a little stud in there.

“I can netrun for you,” he ventures. “To try and help you find out.”

Huh. A little burnout ‘runner? There are more valuable things to find in an abandoned warehouse, but not that many. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m— I can still do that. I’m good. If you got any leads. I can try.”

“Now why would you do that for me,” Chainz hikes his foot up on the lip of the van, leans forward, elbow on his knee. “What would you be wantin’ in return.”

Vang0 laughs, just this edge of hysterical. “Uh, I’m pretty open to— you could, like, tell me where I am? Or gimme a granola bar? Or directions to the nearest net café? Or some pants? Preeetty much anything would be an improvement right now.”

“Jeez, you’re in a way, arentcha. What’re you on? How long’s the comedown?”

“No clue,” the kid itches at his arm, nervously, examines the marks. “I didn’t shoot it. Or if I did, I don’t remember.”

Well, that’s just _sad_. “I dunno about ‘running, kid, but lemme at least give ya a ride. Where can I take you?”

“Are you _deaf_,” Vang0 bites out, sharp. “I have _no idea_. I don’t know _who the fuck I am_. I got nothing. No memories, big guy. There’s two places I know that you can take me, and one is locked in that warehouse, and the other is the back of your shitty van, and though it smells like someone’s been smoking hash in here I gotta say, I prefer it to the rats.”

The burst of frantic anger has that adrenaline-crash flavor to it. Burger frowns. “Well, how dya know what a net café is, if you’ve never been in one?”

Vang0 presses the heels of his hands into his eyesockets, as if this question is unutterably stupid. “I’m fucking _talking_ to you and, like, using nouns and stuff, so my semantic memory’s intact, Einstein.”

“Burger.”

The kid's hands drop sudden, and he jolts his pointy little chin up, like a dog with a scent. “Is that… are you offering me dinner, or… ?”

“The name’s Burger,” he says plainly, sticks out his hand. “Not Einstein. Burger Chainz. Pleased ta meet ya.”

“Oh.” Vang0 reaches out to his hand, grasps, but barely shakes. He’s trembling pretty hard. It doesn’t seem like fear, anymore. He mostly seems exhausted.

“Let’s go get ya some food, then,” Burger nods. “You can sleep in the back of the van, all right? But ya gotta wait on the clothes for a bit. Until I make a couple calls.”

That wide-eyed stare again. Keen. Clever. Very, very tired. Nervous.

“Unless you’d rather—” Burger steps back, gestures out into the empty shipping yard, “—jam on outta here?”

“No I’ll stay,” he blurts out quick. “And I’ll help you. I swear. But can I—” he looks down, and a twitch rolls through his body, and he looks back up. “I left my computer in there. I think it’s mine, anyway. It was in front of me, when I woke up. It was logged in. I think it’s...I’m pretty sure it’s mine.”

“Oh, sure, go for it,” Chainz shrugs.

The kid doesn’t run off to grab it, though. He just stays, frozen, sitting in Burger’s van, clutching his legs, breathing picking up speed. Some of that shrewdness leaks out of his face and his gaze goes almost slack, uncertain. He’s mouthing something, a whisper too soft to hear until Burger bends close.

“_C’mon. You got this. You’re Vang0 Bang0, you’re a netrunner, you’re a genius, you can do this. Just in and out. C’mon. Move.” _

Aw, jeez. He’s fuckin’ shaking. This is probably a hustle, but Burger can’t fuckin’ help it. He feels for the kid.

“I’ll go in and grab it for ya. What’s it look like?”

“It’s— it’s—” Vang0 coughs, shakes himself. “It’s the only laptop in there. Purple. Get the charger?”

“You betcha,” Burger sighs, and goes off to look for it, even though it probably doesn’t exist. Even though he’s leaving this little hacker weirdo alone in his van. Even though he’s got enough money in the glove compartment for a quick score and Keanu’s fuckin’ security protocols are a joke.

But well, the laptop’s there. Small, and purple, as promised.

And Vang0’s there, when he gets back. Small, and pale, and sleeping, which makes sense.

He tucks the computer next to the kid’s ungainly pile of snoring limbs, plugs the charger in to the port on his knee.

Well, Burger can hit the drive-thru on the way back, and probably Vang0’ll wake up at the smell of food, if his rumbling stomach is any indication. And maybe he’ll actually be a ‘runner who can look up a tip, or maybe he’s just a cheeky little liar who’ll take a free meal and a ride to Hypo’s. Either way, it’s no skin off Burger’s nose. Just a quick favor, a couple credits, and they’ll go their separate ways.

He doesn’t have a blanket, so before he shuts the van he shucks his vest and throws it over the kid. It’s barely warmer than nothing, but at least it’s big.

Yeah, just a quick favor, then back ta the job. Even if he is a 'runner. There's just too much risk, hooking up with a scrawny little drawn-out technofreak with no memories. Even if he's got nowhere to go.

0̺̜̠͉͓̯͎͎̼̰́̓̿̍̚͝͝0̹͔̯͍͖̳͐͆̂̐͑̄̀̄0̴̨̝̦̘͈̏̐͆̅1̛̮̟̮̙̩̻̓̾̃͛̑̋͂͝1͉̠̩͎̓̽̿̍̂̾͢͢͜0̸̧̯̟͚̼̤͖̜̍͛̐̆͝͡1̧̝̟̬̪̼̓̊̃̎̽͠0̲̠̜͔̖̥̹̟͋͑̔̿̍̉͑1̱͍̹̫͕̖̮̅̾̈́̾̇͐͡1̸̛̩͚̻̖̹̪̄̓̑̑͆̌͟ͅ0͚̲̫̬͙̱͗̍̓͌͑̄̎̔ͅ1̴̼͇͎͕͉̈́̈́̓̎̕͝ͅ0̟̦͈̫͎̄̿́͐̋̕͜ͅ1̷̡̢͖͓͚̫͍͎̍̀̉͐̈̍̏͊͛ 

  
“You’re a real sucker, Burger,” Dasha drawls, in that flat slow way she has. “And you say he needs _clothes_?”

“And a hairdryer, apparently,” Burger sighs. “Though where we’re gonna plug it in in the van, I don’t know.”

“I’ll make it work!” Vang0 hollers. “I got the wifi going, didn’t I? And see if I can borrow some eyeshadow!”

Burger closes the connection on the sound of Dasha’s snorting laugh.


	2. h4rdw1r3d

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: made the decision that vang0 is using they/them pronouns intermittently at this moment, not so much out of a particular sense of gender identity, but instead as a default due to lack of narrative memories.
> 
> also: thanks to trigonometrical for shower combos \/ :b:

Burger. This man’s name is _ burger. _It’s ridiculous. It’s crazy. It’s stupid. 

nothing about him suggests—his broad shoulders, his metallic jaw, his wide rough hands that are _ more _than capable of— 

and he’s called _ burger_. There are more pressing things to worry about, but the name keeps rattling around in Vang0 Bang0’s head like a marble in a tin can, clinking around, echoing in the space, an irritating noise over and over again— 

_ did I used to get stuff stuck in my head? _

—the absurdity of it twigging, goading, pushing forward some joke about how fucking stupid a name it is. Which'll just piss the guy off and maybe he'll try punching his anger out on his new pet junkie. Shit, for all Vang0 knows it might be good, might clean out a few clock cycles.

But luckily-unluckily Vang0 Bang0’s fetch-decode-execute loop’s already pretty fuckin’ busted and so there’s no ill-timed jokes in mind— 

_ I think I used to tell a lot of jokes. _

_ — _just the guy’s name, which is, absurdly, Burger, and Vang0 Bang0’s own name, and few enough memories that you could fit them in one hand and even then they’d threaten to slip through your fuckin’ fingers. 

Burger. His name’s Burger. The same as the thing in the greasy paper container that he gave to Vang0, ordered, paid for, offered with a shiny warm smile of cold steel— 

_ am I a vegetarian? _

Burger. It’s stupid, that’s what it is. Stupid. Stupid. Unbearably stupid. A stupid name. A stupid thing to do, to pick up some random druggie freak and feed it and make small talk with it and drive it to a truckstop in the middle of god-knows-wheresville and buy it a shower token and a bag of chips. 

_ what does he want? what does he think you have? _

“You like pizza?” the man named Burger asks, handing over the goods. 

“I don’t th—um—sure.”

Vang0’s hands cut off the words, reach out and snatch the chips almost of their own volition, cut off the flat-voiced snarky thing that springs to mind, something like _ oh on a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is the worst thing I've ever eaten, which is a burger, and 10 is the best thing, which is also a fucking burger— _

no, no. Bad idea. Don’t say that. This guy— 

_ Burger _

this big-handed big-bodied big-hearted nomad guy is maybe a part-time philanthropist on his days off from murder but probably is just stupid enough to think that Vang0 might actually be worth something, once they’re cleaned up. 

Either way, pissing him off is a dumb thing to do. And Vang0’s no dummy. 

_ am I stupid? would I even know? _

So. Vang0 takes the bag of pizza combos and manufactures something like a smile when Burger offers to “rustle up some clothes” from whatever this truck-stop’s got on offer, besides novelty keychains and quantum-coupled knuckle-dusters and little cheapy pill packs of bright orange uppers and shiny blue downers. 

“Thanks,” Vang0 says, to the air where Burger used to be— 

_ shit, _spaced for a moment there— 

the big guy’s already halfway across the room, frowning and tutting through the shelves— 

_ knew his investigation would be shit _

so Vang0 Bang0 hurries to the back and fumbles the coin into the mechanism and turns the knob and stumbles into the bathroom almost backwards and the door slams behind heavily and— 

_ shit! _

the skittery filthy little person in the mirror jumps a half-a-foot in the air and drops their bag of chips.

_ Huh. I'm blonde? _

Woof. The reflection is—it’s a little rough. Vang0 hadn’t realized they were cold, but they must be—the body in the mirror looks cold—mostly naked, arms wrapped around itself, shaking with goosebumps, staring with wide wild protruding eyes and pale skin mottled with— 

well, it might be dirt. Might be old brown bruises. Hard to tell. 

_ how long have I— _

There’s one, a smudge of reddish skin, across the throat, cuts right over the adam’s apple, interrupts the long line of neck. The guy named Burger put that there. It hurt, but it’s somehow still better to look at that, instead of the bleached-bright-platinum hair and the scruffy wisps of brown beard and the shiny metallic bodysuit and the pinpoint pupils darting around with an expression of strained emotion that Vang0 can’t quite interpret. At least that red smudge, Vang0 can remember.

They stare, and breathe, and remember what it felt like to be choked and what it felt like to be fed and what it feels like now, to be alive and named Vang0 Bang0 and standing in a truckstop bathroom trying to ground down from crown of head to arch of foot and focus on the bodily sensations and not the racing thoughts— 

_ did I used to have panic attacks? _

Okay. There. Centered. A minute of well-practiced breathing exercises that Vang0’s never done before, and it’s back together again. Next. 

The shower stall is there, looking clean enough, the shower and the toilet and the sink all in order, all that this room offers—that and the mirror, of course, with the gawking shaking body in it—and up in the corner, the sluggish little blink of red light— 

_ oh shit is that a surveillance camera? _

Vang0’s clambering up the sink before they finish even wondering whether they can reach— 

planting feet on the porcelain, hoisting up their weight, pushing on the mirror— 

_ really _dumb idea, that, but the ceiling’s high and this body’s short and they can barely reach— 

but if there’s a camera there’s a web it’s attached to, even a little shitty one, and holy god Vang0 wants in it. Wants it _ bad_. Wants it with a hunger that is as urgent and as undeniable as the one curled patient in their belly, slightly sated by brief administration of food but ever-ready to reassert itself. 

_ did I go hungry often? _

The black round plastic case is easy to yank out of the wall, to get to raw wires. Vang0’s got no stripper— 

needs the rubber off, come on, please— 

shatter the mirror? a shard might do it— 

too much work, that— 

they just edge up on tiptoes, pull down a wire, bite at it, grip the wire and strip it with teeth— 

ugly fix, but it works— 

exposed metal comes free— 

shaking hands— 

they feed the slim wire into the port on their wrist— 

and then Vang0 Bang0’s _ in, _baybee.

0̺̜̠͉͓̯͎͎̼̰́̓̿̍̚͝͝0̹͔̯͍͖̳͐͆̂̐͑̄̀̄0̴̨̝̦̘͈̏̐͆̅1̛̮̟̮̙̩̻̓̾̃͛̑̋͂͝1͉̠̩͎̓̽̿̍̂̾͢͢͜0̸̧̯̟͚̼̤͖̜̍͛̐̆͝͡1̧̝̟̬̪̼̓̊̃̎̽͠0̲̠̜͔̖̥̹̟͋͑̔̿̍̉͑1̱͍̹̫͕̖̮̅̾̈́̾̇͐͡1̸̛̩͚̻̖̹̪̄̓̑̑͆̌͟ͅ0͚̲̫̬͙̱͗̍̓͌͑̄̎̔ͅ1̴̼͇͎͕͉̈́̈́̓̎̕͝ͅ0̟̦͈̫͎̄̿́͐̋̕͜ͅ1̡̢͖͓͚̫͍͎̍̀̉͐̈̍̏͊͛

The man— 

_ where am I? _

the man crouching over Vang0 is named Burger. He’s named Burger, and he’s good at breaking fingers, although he’s also apparently willing to not, if you look sufficiently pathetic or sufficiently cute or sufficiently useful. Vang0 is a little fuzzy on the relevant if-then statements. 

“—ya with me, kid?” Burger says, finishes saying, really, peering into Vang0’s eyes. 

“I’m Vang0 Bang0,” he says, and pauses, feels the cold tile below and the warm leaking dampness above and the snap crackle fizzing pop of sparks all through from head to toe. “I’m with you.” 

“What happened in here?” 

_ he means in this bathroom _

Maybe it should be worrisome, the fainting, the falling, the blood on the mirror, the big bruiser leaning over, looking concerned and also kinda angry, the distant edge of pain rolling, rumbling into focus— 

but holy hoppin’ hosannahs, it’s fucking wonderful to wake up and know where you are— 

_ I’m on the floor of a truckstop bathroom. I’m Vang0 Bang0 and I’m bleeding. This is Burger Chainz and he’s the only person I know and he looks a little ticked. _

“I’m sorry,” Vang0 says immediately, which seems to sour Burger’s expression rather than clear it. The metal jaw grits tighter. The bushy eyebrows draw together, stern. 

_ what color were my eyebrows again? _

“Just tell me what ya took,” Burger says evenly. The cadence is edging on impatient, like maybe he’s asked that already, possibly a couple times. “And how ya managed to crack that noggin of yours on the only sharp point in this whole room, and what’s more, it’s more’n six feet off the dang ground.” 

“I didn’t take anything.” 

_ Oh that’s wrong that’s wrong he doesn’t like that _. 

“I don’t think. I don’t remember, um. Taking anything.” 

It’s really amazing, the degree of expressiveness Burger can get out of that metal jaw. He can purse his lips skeptically, somehow convey the emotion well enough to make Vang0 squirm. 

“Really.I didn’t—I was trying to interface. With the camera. Up there.” 

_ shit, were my hands always this heavy? _

The gesture’s limp and vague, but enough for the direction, to entice Burger to throw a glance up to the top corner of the bathroom and see ripped-up wires and the dangling little plastic doohicky. 

“Ah. Ya plugged in. And ya fell?” 

There’s a towel, suddenly, as if from nowhere, dabbing at Vang0’s forehead. It’s damp. It stings, the cleaning, and then it presses down, and blots the stinging out. 

“I guess. I didn’t—it’s just a little network—super minimal security, easy to bypass—but I um, haven’t done it for a while—I think? And I—I just got—”

It’s hard to find the words for what happens, if you’re careless, if you’re sloppy, if you drop too many checkbits or make a measurement in the wrong basis or accidentally choose a Mersenne prime. Vang0 doesn’t know exactly what went wrong but they know—it was just too exciting. It felt too good, it felt _ amazing_, to be out of this foreign freaky terrifying body and back on a ‘net, even a little one, even just pinging between store cameras and ripping into the settings and filing through every gigabyte of footage to hungrily store on your own home hard drive. There's plenty of space in there.

“—I fucked up. I couldn’t stop. I blued out.” 

These words rush out before Vang0 remembers to lie. To look competent. That'd be _smart, _here. If they want to stay. If they want Burger to be convinced that this pathetic little ‘runner is worth his time. But Burger's pretty stupid, thank fuck, and he doesn't notice.

“Well, take it easy, then,” Burger says, offers a hand, pulls Vang0 up. "I brought ya some clothes. Let's get ya cleaned off."

0̺̜̠͉͓̯͎͎̼̰́̓̿̍̚͝͝0̹͔̯͍͖̳͐͆̂̐͑̄̀̄0̴̨̝̦̘͈̏̐͆̅1̛̮̟̮̙̩̻̓̾̃͛̑̋͂͝1͉̠̩͎̓̽̿̍̂̾͢͢͜0̸̧̯̟͚̼̤͖̜̍͛̐̆͝͡1̧̝̟̬̪̼̓̊̃̎̽͠0̲̠̜͔̖̥̹̟͋͑̔̿̍̉͑1̱͍̹̫͕̖̮̅̾̈́̾̇͐͡1̸̛̩͚̻̖̹̪̄̓̑̑͆̌͟ͅ0͚̲̫̬͙̱͗̍̓͌͑̄̎̔ͅ1̴̼͇͎͕͉̈́̈́̓̎̕͝ͅ0̟̦͈̫͎̄̿́͐̋̕͜ͅ1̡̢͖͓͚̫͍͎̍̀̉͐̈̍̏͊͛

Later, Vang0 won’t remember the details of the shower. The memory fuzz still wasn’t clear yet, the little static bursts that took out new things as well as old. They’ll remember that the water wasn’t _ cold, _ but still lukewarm enough to make them jump and curse. That the soap was black and smelled like charcoal and something about that lurched, kicked loose a jagged edge of something, a shard, and then it was gone. That the whole thing wasn’t as scary as it should have been.

Even when Burger refused to fucking _ leave. _He just sat, back politely turned, making idle chit-chat the whole time. 

It should’ve been—scary, or annoying_, _or _something—_the babysitting—but instead it was just— 

whenever Vang0’s scrubbing fingers caught themselves itching a stray mark— 

_ am I a drug addict? _

it was stupid, but it was nice. To have that goofy lilting accent talkin’ about crazy stuff like birds and bees and peppermint trees. He kept up that stupid patter while Vang0 shoved handfuls of damp combos in his mouth, tried not to laugh at the idea that slimjims and strawberries used to grow right straight out of the ground. That’s the fucking stupidest thing Vang0’s ever heard anyone say— 

and when Vang0 forgot to be careful, and said so— 

well, the guy named Burger just laughed, and said “Hurry up, kid, we’ve got a coupla deliveries to make before we can call it a night.”

And there’s no fuckin’ way to guess, why Burger wants to keep around a guy named Vang0 Bang0 with no money and no manners and nothing in that empty apparently-blond head— 

but for some reason, he does. At least for the night. And that’s something. Something to start from. Day one. Night one. A start.


End file.
